


we fell like rain

by strangetowns



Category: Love Simon (2018), Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda - Becky Albertalli
Genre: Alternate Universe, Best Friends, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 23:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14412669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetowns/pseuds/strangetowns
Summary: Bram sips at his coffee as Mr. Wise starts talking. It’s somehow the perfect temperature, deliciously, toe-curlingly warm; bringing life back to every inch of his insides as it goes down. And it’s probably decaf, because for some reason Simon’s really good at remembering that part of Bram’s coffee order even if he only really mentioned it once a few years back. And when Bram waves his money at Simon later there is a ninety nine point nine nine percent chance he’ll refuse it.It’s the kind of thing that comes with best friend territory, Bram supposes. Something he could take for granted if he wanted to.He doesn’t really want to.-What it means to be Simon Spier’s best friend.





	we fell like rain

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by a prompt from my dear friend [Crystal](https://pronouncingitwang.tumblr.com/): “Spierfield where they’ve been friends for a while (either through email or as like childhood friends who know each other’s faces, both work), the scene where one of them realizes they’re in love with the other.” Thank you for the idea, and I hope this doesn’t disappoint too badly!
> 
> As always, all of my thanks to [Allie](https://evakuality.tumblr.com/) and [Lyds](https://boxesfullofthoughts.tumblr.com/) for lending me your beta reading skills; this fic has improved tenfold under your watchful eyes. Title is from “[Sun](https://youtu.be/sKyK1Mme9Sc)” by Two Door Cinema Club.

It’s a few minutes before the bell is supposed to ring, and Bram is on the verge of pulling out his phone and sending Simon a message to ask if he’s okay - one of his “mom texts”, as Simon would call them - before Simon himself slides into his seat. His hair is all rumpled up and damp from the morning rain - most likely because Simon pretty much never remembers to pack an umbrella - and so are his clothes, as if he rolled out of bed fifteen minutes ago. Knowing him, this concept is honestly probably not that unrealistic.

But Simon turns to Bram with a grin, and he’s got two paper coffee cups in his hands, and the grin on his face is bright and earnest like it always is, and that’s pretty much all it takes for all of Bram’s concerns to die in the back of his throat.

“Hey,” Bram says. “Glad you made it to class okay.”

“You were about to send me a mom text, weren’t you?” Simon says, handing over the coffee. It’s almost too hot in the palm of Bram’s hand, as if purchased just minutes ago. He tightens his grip around the cup and draws it in close to his chest, soaking the heat in through his fingertips.

“Someone around here has to make sure you’re still alive,” he says, shrugging.

Simon’s grin widens. “So what, you don’t trust me with my own life?”

“It’s less that I don’t trust you and more that you probably shouldn’t be trusted,” Bram says.

Simon laughs, little gasps coming out of him like he can’t hold them back anymore. The skin around his eyes crinkles in a way that makes something warm and gentle bloom in Bram’s chest, the way it always does. It’s something about Simon’s happiness, most likely, the sheer infectiousness of it. That particular Simon-ish way it has of touching everything around him, his emotions too big for his body to keep to itself.

Making Simon laugh is one of Bram’s favorite things.

“But you still trust me,” Simon says. “Is what I’m hearing.”

Bram’s grinning now too, which he supposes was inevitable. Simon kind of just has that effect on people. On him.

“You know,” Bram says, “I’m surprised you had time to stop by Dancing Goats when you clearly didn’t have time for putting on your shirt the right way.”

“Wait, what?” Simon says, eyes widening. He gropes at the back of his neck wildly.

Bram laughs, not quite able to help himself. “Kidding,” he says. “It really says a lot that you actually fell for that one.”

Simon pushes at Bram’s shoulder gently. “Jerkface,” he says, though his smiling eyes say he doesn’t actually mean it. Of course, Bram knows he doesn’t, but it’s nice to have the reassurance, anyway.

The bell actually does ring, then, and first period English starts without further fanfare. Bram sips at his coffee as Mr. Wise starts talking. It’s somehow the perfect temperature, deliciously, toe-curlingly warm; bringing life back to every inch of his insides as it goes down. And it’s probably decaf, because for some reason Simon’s really good at remembering that part of Bram’s coffee order even if he only really mentioned it once a few years back. And when Bram waves his money at Simon later there is a ninety nine point nine nine percent chance he’ll refuse it.

It’s the kind of thing that comes with best friend territory, Bram supposes. Something he could take for granted if he wanted to.

He doesn’t really want to.

Eventually the class breaks to work on group projects, which Bram and Simon partnered up for last week. Of course, this probably means they’re going to end up getting way less done today than they should. Simon can be very distracting, not just at the best of times but all the other times too. Still, Bram’s not so worried. They’ll get there eventually. They usually do.

Predictably, as soon as Mr. Wise lets them loose Simon turns to Bram with a very specific look in his eyes that Bram knows well. The one that says there’s something he wants to talk about, and it has nothing to do with their project.

“So,” Simon says. “I made you a playlist this morning.”

Bram raises his eyebrows, not quite able to conceal his surprise. “You had time for Dancing Goats, putting your clothes on the right way, _and_ making a playlist? Who are you and what have you done with the real Simon Spier?”

Simon throws a crumpled up ball of paper at Bram. “Shut up. I’m totally a responsible human being who has all of his shits together.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” Simon agrees without missing a beat. “But this was important! Just yesterday you were complaining about not having any good music to study to! And obviously this meant I had to intervene, considering my music taste is the bomb and you should be so lucky to be blessed with it.”

“I know,” Bram says honestly. He doesn’t remember if he’s ever hated a song Simon showed him. If he’s ever done anything but love it with his entire heart, for that matter. “I’m just glad it didn’t make you late for first period.”

“Even if it did,” Simon says, breaking into a grin, because smiles are the kind of thing Simon gives away like Halloween candy, “it would have totally been worth it.”

Bram smiles back. At this point, there’s really no helping it.

“So,” he says. “What’s this mysterious study playlist like?”

“Oh, you’ll love it, I bet,” Simon says. “Lots of sad weepy music on there. You’re the kind of person who likes sad weepy music, aren’t you?”

“You’ve known me for how many years now, and you still don’t know my music taste?” Bram raises his eyebrows. “Should I be offended?”

“I don’t know,” Simon says with a shrug. “I can’t know _everything_ about a person, can I? Like, what was it Walt Whitman said? You’re large, you contain multitudes?”

Bram’s not quite sure that that’s how that quote is supposed to work, but he thinks he gets the gist of what Simon is saying. It sort of sounds like a throwaway comment, a part of their neverending game of swapping stupid jokes only they find funny. So he knows he’s not supposed to take it seriously. Still, some part of his brain takes it seriously, anyway. Lays the words out in his head, pores over them, searches for what it means to Simon and also what it means to Bram. It’s the kind of person he is, he supposes. He always seems to be looking for the meaning in things before he even realizes that’s what he’s doing.

But there really is something to it, he reckons. This idea that people are so complex and have been through so many experiences no one else has that there’s just no way you can tell your entire life story to someone. It’s almost kind of comforting, actually. It’s impossible to know everything about a person, but it is possible to know enough about them.

And he thinks when it comes to them, it’s always been enough.

“Yeah,” Bram says. “Something like that.”

“Fuck yes,” Simon says. “I totally remember my American literature! Eat your heart out, Mr. Wise.”

His grin hasn’t gone away yet. Bram kind of hopes it never does.

-

Lunch today goes pretty much the way it always does.

The whole gang is reunited, this thirty minute block being pretty much the only chance they’ll get to hang out together today. It’s how it goes most days, though, and it’s how it’s gone in all the years they’ve been a group. It’s pretty crazy to think about, actually. It was years ago but Bram remembers how he felt before he moved to Shady Creek, how scared he was that he wouldn’t be able to make any friends when everyone at his new school probably had their own groups already because that’s the way it was at his old school.

And yet, here they are. Leah and Nick and Simon, who have known each other even longer than Bram’s known any of them. Garrett, Bram’s first friend here and the reason Bram got to know Nick - and Simon, by extension - in the first place. Abby, who’s just as welcome in their group as Bram remembers being when he first joined it. They might not get tons of chances to hang out at school, but that doesn’t make what they have any less perfect. There’s Abby trying to sneak hot sauce into Nick’s milk when he isn’t looking. There’s Leah going on an epic rant and a half about her math teacher, sarcastic and scathing and brutally honest the way only she can be. There’s jokes, and laughter, and more stupid jokes.

And there’s Simon. Simon sliding an extra pudding Bram’s way as he sits down at lunch. Simon doing an impression of Mr. Wise that has them all cracking up. Simon with light in his eyes as he grins, and grins, and grins.

It’s strange. There’s this small part of Bram. Very, very small. Most of him loves the endlessness of Simon’s smile. It’s sort of intoxicating, honestly. The more you see it, the more you want it to stick around. The more you feel like you’d maybe do anything to make that happen. He’s pretty sure this is the kind of thing all of them feel about it; after all, isn’t it just the way Simon is?

But then, this small part of him. This part of him thinks about how easily Simon lets his happiness loose, how he smiles at pretty much everything, good or bad or awkward or otherwise. And it almost wishes he wasn’t so generous with it, with everyone.

It’s stupid and it’s foolish. He thinks it might even be selfish, in a gut-twisting way he can’t quite put other words to.

And he feels so awful for thinking something like that. He doesn’t even really know _why_ he feels like that. It’s not one of those things he’s ever been able to explain with logical reasoning, which is the most disturbing part of it. He hates it when he can’t rationalize his feelings, when there’s no good reason for them. When it feels like they have no purpose.

So yes. He knows it’s stupid and foolish and selfish, in the absolute extreme.

But he feels it, anyway. And he doesn’t really know how to stop.

-

After school and in his car, Bram pulls up the playlist. It’s a little over forty minutes long, so the drive home isn’t going to be long enough for it, but he’ll still get through a pretty good chunk of it. “Soft sounds for rainy days,” it’s called. It’s not quite the title he expected, but it makes sense. He glances at the windshield, the slender streaks of water on the glass. The rain, gentle as it is, doesn’t look like it’s going to let up any time soon.

The tracklist is mostly made up of songs he doesn’t recognize, though he does see Elliott Smith’s name on there. Because of course. It wouldn’t be a Simon playlist without Elliott Smith.

Bram puts the playlist on shuffle, and pulls out of the parking lot. Soft piano chords, to start off the first song. Soft piano that he imagines floating might sound like if it was music. Soft piano that curls up in his ears, that slithers its way into the spaces between his ribs slowly and surely; that feels cold and distant and familiar all at once.

He readjusts his grip on the steering wheel. He leans his head back against his seat.

He listens.

-

Simon’s music taste is one of the few things about him that always manages to take Bram off guard, no matter what. There’s this box in his head of all the things that seem like what Simon would enjoy. Ice cream and candy and romcoms and upbeat songs and happy endings. It’s sort of unfair to put all of those things into a box, Bram knows, but it’s an old habit from the early days when he was still learning about people and how they worked, and since then he’s never quite been able to make the box disappear.

And the thing is, Simon is just - he’s the kind of person who’s so distinctly _him_ that everything he does by extension feels like a Simon thing. Those people, in Bram’s opinion, are a lot rarer than you might think.

But then there’s the music Simon likes. And sometimes it’s soft and understated, and sometimes it’s wonderfully eccentric, and all the time it’s good. But it’s never what Bram expects, and he’s gotten so good at expecting the things that Simon might do he has to notice the times he doesn’t even more.

So, this playlist. Not what Bram might expect Simon to make, but it’s good. Really, really good. “Sad and weepy” is the phrase Simon used to describe it. And it is kind of sad, in a way. Not in a devastating, melodramatic way. More in a way that makes your whole heart quietly ache for things that have passed, or maybe for things you’ve forgotten. Even things you’ve never known.

Then again, Bram doesn’t know that “sad” is exactly the word he’d use to describe the feeling sitting in his chest. This feeling he gets sitting quietly in his car, the rain tapping a haphazard rhythm on the roof of his car. The traffic lights fractured and blurry through the water drops on his windshield. There are other cars on the street, but listening to this music, it’s almost like there aren’t. Like if he wanted to, he could drive and drive until the road ended, and then he’d turn around and make a left turn and do it all over again. And no one would stop him.

“Sad” isn’t quite the word for this. This feels a lot bigger than that. A lot bigger than most words.

There’s this one song Bram keeps coming back to that feels that way, too. He still has about half the playlist to listen to, but after a few minutes he skips back to this song, and ten minutes before he gets home he gives in and just puts it on repeat. Lets the guitar and the hazy voices wash over him like a dream he knows he’ll forget. Something about the delicate strumming, the way the chords melt slowly into each other like something so effortless and gentle, pulls at him, pulls at something vivid and almost tangible inside of him. Some songs he listens to conjure up such strong, powerful images. Like those gritty EDM songs with harsh, pounding beats that sound like driving down I-75 in the midst of downtown Atlanta half an hour past midnight, orange and neon lights streaking past your vision. Or something from the last century, crackling sound quality and a timeless voice that belong to a black and white movie. This is one of those songs.

Except he doesn’t know what that image actually is. All he has is how looking at it makes him feel.

Maybe it’s this line that keeps repeating, over and over again. _My love’s another kind_. Even when the song ends, those are the words that linger in the back of his mind, like a whisper from a past life, a fading memory that doesn’t want to be forgotten. His love is another kind. It makes sense to him in a way he doesn’t know how to articulate. It’s fundamental, almost. Fundamental to the core of his being.

It’s like, sometimes he feels like the only person in the universe. Not really in a bad way. He kind of likes feeling that way, actually. As if he’s finally free from what anyone else might think of him, free from the consequences of their expectations, their reactions when he does something different. Because that’s what he feels a lot of the time, come to think of it. He feels different, but only on the inside where no one can see. And he can’t let anyone see it, because then they’d know. And he likes that they don’t know.

The thing about this song is, he doesn’t know what this band meant when they wrote these words. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to think they mean. But he knows what they mean to him. And no matter the intention behind the words, he can’t seem to shake this feeling that nothing he’s read or seen or heard in his life has ever made him feel like this. Like someone’s reached inside his chest and pulled out the feelings and the thoughts that have lived inside of him all this time, and unfolded them and pieced them together and laid them out for him to see. Like for the first time ever, he’s been exposed. Really and truly exposed.

Maybe it’s kind of stupid to think something like that when there isn’t even anyone else in this car. But even though he knows he shouldn’t think it, he lets himself. It’s self-indulgent, perhaps. Maybe he can afford to be a little self-indulgent when he’s this alone.

The song starts again. Bram tries to imagine Simon listening to it, staring out his car window at the rain staining the pavement. He tries to imagine the things Simon might feel.

Does he feel and think the same things when he hears that line? That his love is another kind?

No. Probably not.

They may be best friends, but in some respects, they are very, very different people.

“Sad” isn’t quite the word Bram should use to describe that either. But he can’t really think of any other words, right now.

-

Simon calls him a couple hours later. Judging from the time, he’s probably fresh out of theater rehearsal and on his way home already. Bram makes a quick guess as to what Simon might want to talk to him about. His reaction to the playlist is the most likely possibility.

“Hey,” Simon says, a little breathless. “So did you listen to the thing yet?”

In some respects, at least, Simon is just about the most predictable person Bram knows.

“I did,” Bram says.

“So?” There’s a hint of eagerness to his voice, a little bit of impatience. Bram didn’t know this was that important to Simon. He has to wonder why. Maybe it’s because this isn’t the kind of thing they usually do, send each other whole playlists. Or maybe it’s something else even Bram can’t guess at.

“Hm.” Bram thinks on it for a moment. “I think a lot of the songs are a little too sad for studying.”

“Aw,” Simon says. He sounds deflated, the disappointment in his voice palpable even over the phone. Bram’s gut twists a little. It’s such a small thing. Still, he hates it when Simon sounds like that. When Simon sounds like that because of _him_.

“They’re perfect for other things, though,” Bram says. “Like rainy days. Like today.”

“Yeah?” It’s amazing how little it takes to make Simon smile again. It’s so obvious in his voice, and even if Bram can’t see it he can imagine it very easily.

“Yeah.” The word comes out softer than Bram meant it to. “I haven’t listened to anything else all day, to be honest.”

“Wow.” Now Simon sounds a little surprised, but pleased.

“I just.” Bram tilts his head back, squinting at the grooves in his ceiling. “I wanted to ask.”

“Ask what?”

He’s gone back and forth this whole afternoon on whether he should bring up the song. There’s a lot of other good songs on the playlist to talk about. And the thing is, this one in particular almost feels like the kind of song people should keep to themselves, in a secret home for the things that could never mean the same to anyone else.

He keeps a lot of things inside himself like that.

But there’s also these questions that have been running circles in the back of his mind for hours now. What does it mean to Simon? Does it mean anything at all? He doesn’t know the answer, doesn’t know if he’d like the answer. The want to know it still takes his breath away.

“That song,” Bram says. “Reprise.”

“Whoa,” Simon says. “Is that how you say it? I never knew if it was with a long ‘I’ or, like, the French way.”

Bram smiles, despite himself.

“I was just wondering, I guess,” he says. “What the reasoning behind that one was.”

“Hm,” Simon says. “I mean, I didn’t really have a reasoning for any of them. I kind of just scrolled through my music and was like, okay, here are all my most lowkey songs that an angsty teenager in a romcom might cry to.”

It’s a very Simon-ish answer, all things considered. Bram should have expected it.

“But…” Bram bites his lip. “But it didn’t stick out to you at all?”

Bram doesn’t know why he’s still holding onto this, or why it’s so important to him. He supposes his questions sound calm enough, but he knows himself. He knows the desperation that clings to his words as they leave his throat, feels the pull of it viscerally with each syllable that forms on his tongue. He’s grasping for something, and it’s maddening that he doesn’t know what that is. That there’s so much he doesn’t know right now.

“I don’t know,” Simon says. There’s uncertainty in his voice now. “Did it stick out to you?”

“I…” Bram lets out a breath. “Yeah, I guess it did.”

Silence, for a bit.

“It was that one line, wasn’t it?” Simon says quietly.

“What line?”

He knows. He knows what it’s going to be. He knows, but his breath still catches in his throat when Simon says it.

“The one where it goes, _my love’s another kind_.”

Bram swallows, hard.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think that’s the one.”

“Then I think…” Simon hesitates. “I think I get what you mean, actually.”

“What do I mean?” His voice almost falters on the words. He wonders if Simon can hear it.

“I mean - ” Simon sighs. “I don’t know. But don’t you think it gets kind of old sometimes, to be surrounded by this high school mentality of what relationships should be?”

Bram closes his eyes. “What do _you_ mean?”

“Like - ” Simon makes an annoyed sound, the one that means he can’t quite figure out the words he wants to say. “Like, I don’t know. There’s just this pressure to be with someone in a certain kind of way, almost to the point where you sort of feel like you _have_ to be in a relationship that way to be normal, or else something is wrong with you. But sometimes it just feels so - so freaking _suffocating_ , you know what I mean?”

Bram almost thinks he does. He hopes he does.

“Like in the movies,” Simon continues. “It always goes the same dumb way. A boy and a girl meet, and then they talk, and sometimes there’s drama and sometimes there’s sadness, but they always get together in the end. It’s the same stupid story, over and over again. And everyone wants love to be like how it is in the movies. But what if I don’t want it to be like how it is in the movies? What if I want it to actually _mean_ something?”

There’s silence. A silence Bram doesn’t know how to fill up.

And then, a short laugh from Simon.

“God, I don’t know.” He exhales loudly. “Maybe I’m just being dumb.”

“You’re not being dumb,” Bram says, automatic as a reflex.

A long pause. “No?”

“It makes sense,” Bram says. “What you’re trying to say.”

He wishes he could say more. Wishes he could tell Simon he understands like he’s never understood anything in his life before, that in this moment he feels exactly like how he felt listening to the song from the playlist. Like this is the most connected to himself he’s ever been. Like this is the most connected to someone else he’s ever felt.

But they’ve never talked about anything like this before. They’ve never so much as said anything that’s ever felt this important. Simon has never, ever said anything like this to him before. In fact, Bram had pretty much no idea he felt that way.

And Bram just doesn’t know what to do. Everything inside him is just - frozen. His words are stuck, bound by the ice in his chest. It’s honestly kind of amazing he’s speaking at all.

“Just - ” Simon pauses. “Just, sometimes I feel like I’m never going to find someone who feels the same way. Which is fine, I guess. I don’t really _need_ to.”

They’re on the verge of something. Or at least, Bram is on the verge of something. He can feel it in his entire body, his stomach swooping as if the ground could crack apart under his feet at any moment. Like in this moment suspended in silence, he’s suspended too, a delicate balance that could be disturbed with a word or a single breath.

“But I think I want to,” Simon says.

 _Me, too_ , Bram thinks, and right there, in the darkness behind his closed eyelids and the silence after Simon’s words, it feels like falling.

And then Simon clears his throat, and laughs, and Bram opens his eyes.

“God, listen to me,” Simon says. “What a cliche. This forever alone bullshit. _I_ sound like a shitty teen movie now.”

He laughs again. Just keeps on laughing.

It’s not the first time Bram finds himself almost wishing that he wouldn’t.

It feels just as awful as it always does.

Worse, even.

“I mean,” Bram says, as lightly as he can, “you kind of are a teenager.”

“Well, fuck,” Simon says. “I guess you’re right.”

Silence, again. This time, Simon doesn’t laugh.

And now, Bram aches for it.

He hates himself, a little, for how he never seems to know how to feel, how the things he does feel always seem wrong. It burns in a small place right behind his sternum. Burns like a silent fire, fueled by the words he doesn’t know how to say.

It hurts.

“Anyway,” Simon says.

“Anyway,” Bram says.

“I’m almost home now, but I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Simon clears his throat. “I’m glad you liked the playlist.”

“Yeah,” Bram says. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Simon says.

And the line goes dead.

-

The rest of the evening goes the way it usually does, too. His mom comes home half an hour past six, and they heat leftovers from the last weekend for dinner. They ask each other about their days, and he gives his typical answers. Classes are fine. Friends are fine. Everything is fine.

After they finish eating, he goes up to his room and closes the door quietly behind him. He sits at his desk, pulls open his textbook for Chemistry, flips it open to the right chapter. Reads the first paragraph about five times before it registers that his hands are shaking against the page.

He presses his fists to his eyes, and exhales.

God. He can’t stop thinking.

The worst part is, it’s not one specific thing. He can’t stop thinking about any of it. All of today is just playing back in his head, words and feelings and songs warping together into some horrible, undefinable mess he can’t make sense of. And he’s not going to be able to do anything until it makes sense, he knows. But he also knows it’s never going to make any sense.

There’s this one stupid, inconsequential detail he keeps latching onto. Almost every song on the playlist Simon made him was a love song. Did Simon register that? Did he know he was giving another boy a bunch of love songs? Did that mean anything to him at all?

 _I kind of just scrolled through my own music_. No, of course it doesn’t, and of course he wouldn’t have noticed. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Bram is going to choke on his own stupidity.

See, this is the thing he hates most about his own brain. Even when he knows on a level that’s deeper than soul deep that there’s no point, it still tries to find meaning in everything.

But there is no meaning. There’s no meaning in anything. Not in the songs Simon sent him, not in the words he said. Not in anything that Bram feels.

For the first time in a long, long time, Bram feels like the only person in the universe, and he hates it. He hates not being able to find his words. He hates that he hates feeling alone right now.

He hates that he feels alone at all.

It’s the fact that he can’t talk about it that’s really getting at him, oddly enough. Usually he’d be okay with not talking about it. Usually he’d be pretty happy about it, actually. But this -

This indescribable ache in his chest that threatens to swallow him whole -

This is too much.

And who could he even talk to? Everyone else in their group is straight. Hell, Simon himself has probably had more girlfriends than the rest of them combined.

Then there’s the issue of what to actually say about it. Because even if he got around the sheer impossibility of everything else about this, even if he was in the position to talk about this - this thing inside of him, he’s never, ever talked about it before. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

But it’s huge, it’s immense; it’s vaster than anything he’s ever felt. And he doesn’t have the words for it, which means it has nowhere to go. It almost feels like he’ll explode if he doesn’t get it out of him.

Heat pounds at his temples as he reaches for his laptop. He scrolls through his messages. Last night Garrett sent him a link to a post on the Creek Secrets tumblr he has yet to respond to. He stares at it. And stares.

He doesn’t think, which come to think of it is probably a testament to the strength of all that’s inside him right now, that it could compel him to bypass the one thing he always does way too much of. He clicks on the link, this blog he’s visited maybe twice in his entire high school career. He finds the submit box.

He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think.

He types.

And he types, and he types, and he types.

 

> _Sometimes, it feels like I’m the only person in the universe._
> 
> _It feels kind of ridiculous to say something like that, when I have a family who loves me and friends I hang out with every day and pretty much all the loving people I could possibly ask for. It’s enough, of course. It’s more than enough._
> 
> _There is a certain kind of loneliness, though, in realizing that even the most important person in my life could never truly know everything about me. Because people are like houses, with vast rooms and tiny windows. Because you could know someone for your whole entire life and never know what they’re really thinking. Because that person could do one tiny, tiny thing, and suddenly it changes everything._
> 
> _It’s like if you were floating in the ocean, and people were the shores of islands that will save you. All you have to do is swim to them, and on the most logical level you know this. In the grand scheme of things it might not even take you that long. But all that’s around you is the churning sea, miles and miles of empty, treacherous blue until the horizon. And no matter how hard you tell yourself that swimming to shore will be worth the effort, it’s still hard to put so much faith in something you can’t see._
> 
> _Right now, all I can see is ocean._
> 
> _So maybe I’m not the only person in the universe. Then again, no one knows I’m gay. My straight best friend doesn’t know I’m in love with him. Maybe it’s just this one thing about me. Some days, it still feels like I’m drowning in it._

He finishes typing the last word, and leans his head back against his chair. He’s breathing hard and his heart is beating wildly, like he’s just finished a soccer game. Except there are no winners here.

His hands are still shaking.

He scrolls back up to the top of the box to read the words he just wrote, the ones that came out of him like he was possessed. He gets to the last paragraph, eyes latching onto that one sentence.

_My straight best friend doesn’t know I’m in love with him._

He thinks, oh.

There it is.

Because it’s one thing to know something, to feel it so deeply sometimes it’s like his heart has no room for anything else. It’s another to see it in actual, concrete words. To admit that this is what it is. This is the truth of it.

Strangely, though, he doesn’t even feel that weird about it. It’s almost kind of comforting to know that words do exist for this, this thing he maybe knew but never named until now. That last paragraph is simple, and it’s real. Right now, it’s the realest thing he knows.

In the morning, probably, he’ll wake up and remember this, and it’ll fill the pit of his stomach with dread and guilt and a thousand other feelings that will weigh on him like an entire world. In this moment, he doesn’t feel any of that. In this moment, he feels relief, overwhelming, crushing relief; so light in his chest he’s almost giddy with it.

He could close out of the page now, if he wanted. He did all that he set out to do. And if he posts this, the world will be able to read it.

But they won’t have his name, or his face, or anything else about him. And won’t he be just as alone as before?

At least if someone else out there reads it, they’ll know this is real, too.

Maybe he likes the thought of that. Maybe he likes it even better than the thought of no one knowing anything about the inside of him. Because anonymity is safe, and it’s freeing. Because there’s something kind of weirdly comforting about a host of faceless strangers knowing something he can never tell the people he cares about.

Because absolutely nothing else will be attached to these words, which means they’ll just be truth. And the truth deserves to live outside of his head.

Besides, at this point, what does he have to lose? He didn’t have it to begin with.

He’s made up his mind, then. It doesn’t matter if people read it, and it doesn’t matter if they don’t. The words exist, and that’s enough. They’re real, which means he can carry them with him. He can live with this; he knows he can.

He has to.

He reads over the post one more time, for good measure. He brings his cursor to the submit button.

And he posts it.

-

Bram doesn’t check the tumblr in the morning. He drives to school, meets Simon in English class, goes through the rest of the day like he always does.

When he gets home, the tumblr page is still open on his laptop. Just once, he tells himself. He’ll check it just once.

He refreshes the page, and his post is there, with five notes.

Four of them are likes. One of them is a reply.

It’s an email address.

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes:
> 
> -For the sake of my sanity I will not be continuing this verse beyond this point. For the record though I sort of imagine the rest of the story going similarly to canon, except with ten times more pining and twenty times more denial.  
> [10/19/2018 - this was a while ago but someone asked me on my tumblr to further expand on my thoughts for how this verse would continue, which you can find [here](http://canonicallyanxious.tumblr.com/post/173469434797/this-is-soo-selfish-of-me-to-ask-but-can-i-please) if you’re interested, keeping in mind that since I didn’t actually write it the verse is still completely 100% up to reader interpretation and my take on it is just one of many possible takes you could have!]
> 
> -[Here](https://open.spotify.com/user/strange-towns/playlist/4mtBoXDjuZqFLd3cpkDdxL?si=_ZZl0yAfTs2uleyArKA-YA) is a mock-up of the playlist Simon makes for Bram, if you’re interested.
> 
> -The song that is featured in this fic is “[Reprise](https://youtu.be/skcC2ADy_2Y)” by Grizzly Bear. This song has a lot of personal significance to me so maybe it’s a little self-indulgent, but for some reason I just really like the idea of Bram at some point discovering one of the lead singers in this band is gay as well as [what he has to say](http://www.newnownext.com/interview-with-ed-droste-of-grizzly-bear/07/2007/) about the lyric “my love’s another kind”, and finding a little bit of comfort in that.
> 
> -I borrowed a lot of Bram’s tumblr post from Becky Albertalli’s description of it in the book, particularly the line “people are like houses with vast rooms and tiny windows” and the ocean between people. My verbose ass couldn’t figure out a way to make it only 5 lines long, but it is what it is, I suppose.
> 
> -You can find me on [tumblr](https://canonicallyanxious.tumblr.com/), if you’d like. Come talk to me about our boys!
> 
> And that's all I've got. Thank you for reading! <3


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